"I'm sorry," I say, crossing my arms over my chest—not as a gesture of defense, but as a wish for closeness that I won’t allow myself to have. I'm not used to being exposed to someone's vulnerability like this.
He shakes his head. "I appreciate your empathy, but I didn't tell you that because I wanted any pity. You wanted to know and I told you because I trust you."
"Are you sure you really know what trust is, or did you invent a new concept for that as well?"
He smiles. "I implicitly trust everyone until they give me a reason not to."
I get ready to pour myself another shot before I think better of it. I put the bottle back down. I become too affectionate when I drink, and the last thing I need is to make the same mistake twice.
"So, have you heard anything about the case?" I ask. "Did they tell you anything about Iris?"
"They told me that she seemed to have died the same way," he says. "And her room had been broken into the morning she had died. She lived on the first floor in her apartment and the window was broken."
"I find it hard to believe nobody saw or heard anything if the window was broken," I say.
He shrugs. "Her window faced a parking lot, but there are large bushes between it and the building. It was also early in the morning, so some of the other residents heard the sound, but they didn't think much of it. People hear weird sounds all of the time. I'm not excusing their behavior because at least one of them should have checked it out, but I also understand why none of them reacted."
"Well, the killer broke into your office to get the recommendation letters," I say. "Why would they break into her apartment?"
"I have no idea," he says. "Maybe he did something in there that would later kill her?"
"Like a booby trap?"
"Okay, I wouldn't use that term, but something like that," he says. My phone vibrates.
Mom: Your brother came into contact with some variant of aconite. His skin absorbed it or something. It turns out he'll be here for likely a week getting cardio-pulminary (pulmonary? I don’t know. Heart things) support. Liam is very aggravated, but the doctor says it's lucky the poison was so diluted. Love you. Talk to you soon.
I set my phone down and turn to John. "Aconite."
"Excuse me?"
"Aconite," I repeat. "It's a botanical compound. It's known to leave only one major symptom and that's asphyxia. It doesn't show up on autopsies unless the medical examiner is looking for it, but I know Tim. He would have looked for it. My mother says my brother came into contact with a variant of it, which means that whoever created it had to have changed it, which means they may have changed it enough that it wouldn't show up on the autopsy."
"That would be complicated," John says. "It's not like everyone has a chemistry set in their basement."
I turn to him. "But they do at the college."
The chemistry lab is one of the cleanest rooms I've ever seen. Everything is steel, glass, or rubber, and it's all spotless.
"So, what does this poison look like?" John asks.
"Aconite comes from the flower Aconitum. It can be several different colors--purple, blue, yellow, white...I think I saw a photo of a pink one once. The two upper petals are large, but there are some smaller ones--"
"You know what? I'll just tell you if I find a plant," he says. "And I'll avoid touching anything that doesn't need to be touched."
"Well, it doesn't have to be in flower form," I say. "It could be crushed up, it could be dried out and put in a jar...I don't know. I don't think a smart killer would leave it in here, but maybe that's what he or she wants us to think. But that's not the only thing we should look for. This person had to use different tools to change aconite from its original form. I remember reading that in traditional Chinese medicine, the roots are soaked and boiled, which eventually make them less poisonous."
"You really need to find more interesting things to read."
"So, anyway," I say, ignoring him, "there could be residue of the poison in some of this equipment. I'm sure the killer was very careful, but he or she could have easily missed something."
"Can't you just have the body autopsied again?" John asks.
"I texted Tim," I say. "He's going to check Everett's body first, then Iris. Victoria was already cremated."
"Pleasant," he mutters. "So, why are we doing this?"
"You don't have to be here if you don't want to be."
"I want to be here," he says. "I just want to know why I'm here."
"Because if the killer made it here, then we know they're a Tuskmirth student or professor," I say. "Because, for all we know, they could have been at Iris's college this whole time. And if this poison was made here, then the killer is likely connected to the chemistry department. Do you know if any of your students were double majoring or had a minor in chemistry?"
"I may have had a few with a major in chemistry who took my Intro to Creative Writing class to fulfill a general ed requirement, but I can't be certain. I can check my current roster, but Victoria and Iris were both old students. I could have taught the killer years ago.”
“What are you doing here?” a man’s voice asks.
Both of us spin around to see Dominic, Alex, and Brian. Dominic’s usual stoic face is tainted with anger, his top lip curled up and his nostrils flared. I have no idea what I did that could have incited that much rage.
“Dr. Zimmer was just giving me a tour of the school,” I lie. “You guys have a really nice campus.”
“Fuck off,” he says to me. He turns to John. “I was talking to you. I’ve been hearing all about you lately. First from Victoria and now everyone is talking about how all the victims are connected to you. Don’t you find that…intriguing?”
“I’m not the killer, Dominic,” John says. He takes a step back. I don’t blame him. Dominic’s fists are both balled up and he seems like a second away from losing all self-control.
“What kind of professor gives a student a key to their office?” he hisses. “Who spends so much one-on-one time with their students? Or, should I say, their female students?”
“I gave her the key to my office because I trust her,” John says. “And I spend as much time with my students as I think they need to become better writers. It’s a simple matter of—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, taking a step forward. As it seems like he’s about to hit John and I’m preparing to tackle him, Alex rushes forward. His fist comes first, slamming against John’s head. In a moment of confusion, I watch them scramble on the floor.
“You killed them all, didn’t you?” Alex accuses, grabbing the front of John’s shirt. “Then you tried to blame it on us.”
I try to grab Alex, but he’s too large to be pushed off John. As he spins around to face me, he swings his arm toward my face. I grab his arm. He tries to wrench it out of my grasp, but his large sweater sleeve allows me to keep a grip. I yank him to the left, but he still barely moves. As he stands up, his hands are balled up, so I know I need to move before he’s stable on his feet. But before I can react, John grabs Alex’s ankle, jerking it backward. Alex stumbles back, tripping over John’s body and falling to the floor. He lands on his arm with a pain-filled grunt.
John scrambles to his feet, backing up against a wall. He touches a growing lump on his cheek.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
He nods.
Alex gets onto his feet, cradling his arm.
“All of you know that I’m connected to the police,” I say. “Unless you want to get into trouble—and being involved in the attack of a professor would certainly get you expelled—I’d suggest you get out of here and not bother Dr. Zimmer again. The police are dealing with the investigation. None of you needs to.”
Alex and Brian scurry away. Dominic glares at John with as much disgust and hatred as I’ve seen parents show when their child’s killer is on trial. His girlfriend’s murder will affect him for the rest of his life, but the way he’s going, it will lead him to a much darke
r place.
After he walks away, I walk over to John.
“So that’s what college is like these days?” I ask.
“Only on the good days.” He smiles before wincing from the movement. “What was that even about? Do you think Alex had feelings for Victoria?”
I shrug. “He indicated that he didn’t, but he could have been lying. Maybe he’s just Dominic’s henchman and did the attacking for him.”
“I don’t know, he seemed pretty determined to hit me as hard as possible,” he says. “I think I heard his finger crack. Who does that?”
“Frat boys with big egos,” I say. “Come on. You need to ice that.”
John’s house is only about ten minutes away from the school. It’s a spacious house with white walls and dark blue carpet in the entryway. He leads me the kitchen, which is small compared to the rest of the house. We can barely move around in it without bumping into each other.
“You haven’t decorated much,” I say. “How long have you lived here?”
“Four years,” he says. “But I never make any place my home. I’m always looking forward to moving up to a better college—I’m hoping to teach at one of the Ivy League colleges—so I treat it like a hotel room.”
“Still, I would think a person in the arts would find this boring.”
“My art is in my head,” he says. “I can create whole worlds that are too big to fit in my apartment.”
“I thought you hated science-fiction.”
He smiles. “It’s not just science fiction where we create new worlds. We create new worlds based on reality—a world where we don’t worry about terrorism, war, taxes….”
I check out his cheek. “You said you had an ice bag in here.”
He grabs the bag out of one of the drawers and fills it with ice. He places it against his cheek.
“What about the rest of you?” I ask, indicating his whole body. “You fell pretty hard when he tackled you.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Unless you want to check yourself? I do seem to have a pain in my ass.”
“Cute,” I drawl.
“We didn’t exactly find anything in the chemistry room,” he says.
“Yeah, it would have been a miracle if we did, though,” I say. “What about how Iris’s room had been broken into? The killer must have been putting the poison in something she touched or ate.”
“I know she took antidepressants,” he says. “Or she did when I taught her. Maybe the killer put it in one of her capsules. It would give her enough time to be at her class before the poison took effect.”
“Right,” I say. “We can’t be sure about Victoria, but it seems that all of the poisonings happened in a public place, so it must have taken time to take effect.”
“Not to mention an extremely gifted chemist,” he says. “The person would have to be either an excellent student or maybe a professor, but that wouldn’t make sense if they’re attached to—”
“Wait,” I say. “Alex.”
“Yeah, I remember Alex. He punched me,” John says.
“Alex once mentioned luminol to me,” I say. “Forensic scientists use it to test for trace amounts of blood. But he didn’t just know it existed. He knew how it worked. He knew that it caused unstable organic peroxide. He has to be involved with chemicals. The average person wouldn’t know that. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”
“But why would he hit me?” John asks. “Doesn’t that draw attention to him?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He saw us in the chemistry room. Maybe he thought we were getting too close. Hell, maybe all his frat buddies are involved. I doubt it, though.”
“Could he have been the one who attacked you before?”
I shake my head. “I can’t be sure. And was he ever your student?”
“No,” he says. “This doesn’t add up. I don’t even know him. My closest connection to him would have been Victoria.”
“Maybe there’s something more going on,” I say. “Somebody doesn’t just go to another college to break into a woman’s room to….wait. He broke into her room. Through the window, right?”
He nods. “Yeah. The window was made up of two window panes. The bottom one was broken.”
“Which would have cut up the person’s arm,” I say. “If Alex had hurt his arm and, say, needed a cast, it would cover up any other injury to his arm. Dammit, he’s smart.”
“His choice of victims still doesn’t make sense to me,” John says.
“Then let’s go ask him,” I say.
When we reach the frat house, I'm five steps ahead of John. I knock on the door. Over a minute passes. I'm about to knock again when the door opens.
"Hello?" a young woman answers, rubbing her right eye. She's wearing a man's shirt that barely covers her ass. "Whattaya want? If somebody had a noise complaint, they can shove it up their ass because this is a college campus and--"
"I don't have a noise complaint," I say. "I need to talk to Alex."
"Alex? I don't know where he is," she says.
"He's usually here," I say. "Why wouldn't he be here?"
"I don't know," she mumbles. "But everyone else was looking for him, too. I don't know. Why are you asking so many questions? It's still early."
“It’s nearly lunch time. If you see him, can you—”
As I pull out my old business card, I hear an engine roaring to life. I spin around to see Alex in a black convertible. His gaze locks with mine, before I see that realization that he knows that I know he’s involved. His car jerks back and drives straight into the road. He spins his car around and heads west.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, running toward my car, half-forgetting about John. He runs with me, getting into the passenger seat, just as I pull out of the frat house’s driveway. I speed after Alex, but I already know it’s a lost cause. Chasing after him will only make him drive faster, which could cause an accident, and if I’m caught, I’m certain to hear a mouthful from Detective Stolz. She’ll probably ensure that I’ll get the toughest penalty possible out of pure spite.
I don’t need to follow him, though. I know somebody who can find him.
Andre said that he would call me as soon as his network of people could either trace Alex’s phone or he contacted somebody to help him with something illegal—a passport, murder, a distraction for the police. John returned to his house while I’m back in my apartment, dwelling on a thousand unnecessary thoughts.
I should call the police.
But what if Alex isn’t the killer?
Then why would he run away from me?
I should be kinder to Andre.
But he took my trust and crushed it without flinching.
I should be kinder to John.
But he’s still a suspect and he takes people’s lives to turn them into stories.
My thoughts are becoming so jumbled. John recommended I write things down. He said it would help the hurt—I wonder if it will help the confusion, too. I decide that I need to write down the jumbled thoughts, but as soon as I sit down at my recliner, grab a pen and pad of paper, the thoughts all scatter. There’s nothing in my head.
I need to start at the beginning.
“Trust me.”
Those were the words the man used when he took my sister. I remember his lips forming the words—the way his lips pinched together at the beginning of the sentence and snapped together at the end. His mouth was a trap—I fell for the trick, but it was my sister who was ensnared.
For some reason, she left behind the plastic pearl bracelet she always wore.
My mother came out of the house a few minutes later. She had thought my sister and I had been playing hide and seek and I had simply given up. As soon as I told her the truth, she became hysterical. Her anxiety was so high that I remember it felt like it was rattling in my bones. I still feel her anxiety today. She kept bombarding me with questions, but I didn’t have any answers. I hadn’t been paying attention when the man talked t
o me, and all I could tell her was that he had brown hair and a square-ish face. Her confusion, pain, and fear seemed to cloud my memory and, twenty years later, I still can’t remember much of that man’s face.
This is when I tell you about a daring rescue—SWAT teams rushing into some man’s house, one of them finding my sister locked in a room and cradling her against his chest, the man crying as he’s arrested and sentenced to life in prison, and, me, twenty years later, pursuing a career in criminal justice in honor of those brave people who found my sister.
But that’s not what happened.
Nearly everyone in town and some people from neighboring towns searched for my sister. Houses were searched, woods were combed, all kinds of dogs put their noses to the ground and scrambled to find her. The first few days, there was an energy in the air that demanded that the universe give my sister back to my parents. By the end of the week, that demand turned to a plea. In the second week, grief began to seep into everyone and many people in town returned to their lives. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but I know now that there were unsaid words by them: she’s gone. There’s no way somebody kidnapped her and she’s still alive. I was certain everyone blamed me, no matter how many people told me it wasn’t my fault. I kept my little brother’s hand in my grasp at all times. I lost Sonia, but I wasn’t going to lose Liam.
By the third week, the police were dodging my parents’ phone calls. They told them that they were investigating, but there had been other cases we knew they were focusing on because it was all over the news. On the twentieth day since my sister disappeared, one of the detectives told my parents that the case would remain open, but they could no longer use all their resources finding a girl they hadn’t been able to find for three weeks.
Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) Page 12
